Daughters of Belgravia; vol 1 of 3 - Alexander Fraser 2 стр.

She listens a moment.

Estudiantina! Its the eighteenth dance, Carl, she says, nervously, for Zai has a much more wholesome fear of her august mother than her sisters have. How long we have been absent!

He glances at his watch.

Half-past one oclock!  nearly one hour and a-half. Who would believe it, little one? Nearly an hour and a half, that has flown like this because you and I are alone together. Just so our lives will pass like a delicious dream, my Zai. I dont think any two people in this world ever loved one another as we do. The very first time I saw you do you remember? It was at Lady Derringhams. I have been devoted to fat, fussy Lady Derringham ever since! I knew it was all over with me. No more flirtations, no more bachelor ways for me. I knew it was my wife standing before me, in a sweet little blue dress, with a bunch as big as herself of lilies of the valley in her bosom. Zai, did you feel any instinct of the kind?

Yes, she whispers, nestling into his arms and kissing his coat-sleeve surreptitiously.

The strains of the Estudiantina Waltz are still floating on the still air. The moon has hidden her face behind a bank of greyish cloud, and already the first pink tinge of dawn peeps down on earth.

Tell me what you felt? he says, forgetful of time, of the convenances, of Lady Berangers wrath, and clasping her nearer, he tenderly draws the long dark cloak closer round her slender throat.

In the first moment I saw you, Carl, it seemed to me as if God had chosen me out for such delicious delicious happiness as no other girl ever had in the world. I loved you in that moment as much as I love you now, Carl! And that is oh! how can I tell you? I dont believe that was the beginning of my love, for it was so great, and full, and perfect, that it must have been growing a long, long time. I love you!  I love you! I could say it every hour of my life, until you tired of hearing me. But you will never, never tire of hearing me say it, Carl, will you? she asks wistfully.

Carlton Conway laughs as he listens, but it is scarcely a laugh that denotes mirth. Eight-and-twenty he has never found a true woman yet to his thinking, until this one came and sat down in blind adoration at his feet, and gave all her pure and loving heart and soul into his keeping unreservedly unquestioningly and brought a sense of happiness with her which he had never pictured even in his dreams.

Tired of hearing that she loves him! When her love is the one thing in all the world to him. It is these words of hers that make him laugh. They seem so strange and absurd, when he knows that his whole being is full of her. So he answers her by wrapping his arms round her, and pressing fond, fervent kisses on her brow and lids and sweet tempting lips the lips that are his, and that no other man has touched like this. He has culled their perfume and fragrance, and as he feels this to be true, each kiss that he gives and takes seems to be a link in the chain of love that binds them together.

When do your people leave town, Zai? he asks her, and for how long?

The day after to-morrow, Carl, she answers, stifling back a sob, for Hampshire seems to be the worlds end from London, but we shall be back in a week.

And who has Lady Beranger invited down to Sandilands?

Mr. Hamilton and Lord Delaval.

Carlton Conway grinds his heel into the ground with impotent rage.

So, he mutters, both are eligible men. How well Lady Beranger knows what shes about. I wonder for which of her lovely daughters she is trying to hook old Hamilton?

For Trixy I think, Trixy always gets on with elderly men. I believe she is really in love with someone, and is therefore indifferent if her companions are old or young.

Carl Conway reddens. Of course everybody knows that Trixy Beranger, who used to be the biggest flirt in town when she came out two years ago, has sobered down strangely, and everybody puts down the change to the influence of Carl Conway.

And Delaval is asked for you, he cries jealously.

Oh, Gabrielle will take care of him, Zai laughs brightly. Gabrielle is more fitted for a coronet than either of us. She is so tall and stately, and has so much of what mamma calls worldly guile.

Which, thank God, you havent, my own Zai. I have got an invitation for the day after to-morrow to Elm Lodge.

Ah! she cries, with a happy smile, that is only a mile from Sandilands.

Yes, but you know Crystal Meredyth is rather fond of me, and Mrs. Meredyth doesnt object to followers, even if they are artists or actors.

Zai shivers from head to foot in the warm June night, and grows white to her quivering lips as she draws herself away gently from his clasp.

What is it, darling? he asks anxiously.

No answer.

Zais head droops so that he cannot see her eyes, so he puts his hand under her chin and lifts up her face, and as he gazes down at it he thinks that God never made so beautiful a thing as she who has been made for him. The red lips quiver, her sweet eyes tell him such a wondrous tale of love, that he forgets everything but himself and her.

How he longs to carry her away in his stalwart arms. His darling, his little sweetheart!

Come, Zai, my own, own Zai! Speak to me, tell me once more that you love me, that no one will ever make you forget me. It drives me wild to think that those fellows at Sandilands will be near you, and I away.

You will have Crystal Meredyth! she whispers tremulously, then she breaks into a passion of tears, each of which stab him to the heart.

He kisses them off, and holds her to him fondly, and what with caresses and love words, draws the smiles back to her mouth, and the pink colour to her cheek.

Zai, will you swear to be as true to me as I shall be true to you?

I swear, she replies unhesitatingly.

And you wont let those fellows, Delaval and Hamilton, dare to make love to you?

I would rather die, Carl.

I believe you would, my child, he answers in a trustful voice, and now let us say good-night here, though I am going back to the house to show myself.

Good-night!

And, like Romeo and Juliet, they find parting is such sweet sorrow that it is some moments before it takes place.

And when Zai leaves him, he murmurs to himself, truthfully, honestly:

My God, how I love her!

Ten minutes afterwards, he is valsing to the strain of Loves Dreamland with Crystal Meredyth, and whispering low to her, and Crystal, who has set him up as a hero to worship, blushes and smiles with intense satisfaction.

What a flirt that Conway is, Lady Beranger soliloquises, as she watches him covertly. I do not believe he really presumes to think of Zai, but it wont do to have him interfering with Delaval. What a charming couple they make, she adds with intense satisfaction, as Zai floats by with Lord Delaval, but she does not mark how distraite her daughter looks, and that the good-looking peers soft nothings fall on stoney ground, and neither does she know that when the ball is over, Zai goes to bed and cries bitterly as she remembers that Crystal Meredyth is lovely and that men always like pretty women.

CHAPTER II.

SANDILANDS

It must be a rose-tinted existence. So outsiders fancy as they look at Sandilands from under the shadowy light and shade that falls across some mossy bank, but before they venture an opinion on the subject, let them pause. The judging of other folks lives by their external surroundings is the most deceptive work possible.

It must be a rose-tinted existence. So outsiders fancy as they look at Sandilands from under the shadowy light and shade that falls across some mossy bank, but before they venture an opinion on the subject, let them pause. The judging of other folks lives by their external surroundings is the most deceptive work possible.

Sandilands is a paradise, but, like the original Paradise, it has a serpent crawling over its flowers nay, it has more than one.

Going down to Sandilands just for a breath of fresh air, you know, after the stuffiness of Town, Lady Beranger imparts to the Dowager Marchioness of Damesbury.

But the Dowager knows better. She knows that Lady Beranger delights in the stuffiness of Town, especially in the season, and that Sandilands is only a decoy duck for Lord Delaval.

So she shakes her well-known curls solemnly at the fibber and says nothing, but thinks ever so much the more. She is an astute old aristocrat, old Heaven knows how old but as festive as a young thing of one score, and always to be found at country houses, as a sort of standing dish.

They do say they who say everything that she never spends any of her own income, but is kept in board and lodging by the friends whom she honours by feeding at their expense.

We are only going down for a week, couldnt we persuade you, dear Marchioness, to run down with us?

Yes. The Dowager accepts with pleasure. She is a bit of a wag. She has lived so long in the world that she has grown a little cynical and humorous over its fads and follies, and Lady Beranger amuses her immensely. Its such fun to think that Lady Beranger believes she takes her in, when all the while she reads Lady B. through and through, and knows that she is only asked down to Sandilands for mamma to talk to, while her daughters catch the eligibles.

The day after the Berangers come down to Sandilands is a day of days. A sort of day on which one feels satisfied with ones-self and with ones neighbours, and a day on which we forget all the bad days, simply because this one is so exceptionally beautiful.

A mite of a breeze swishes by, just to stir up the leaves overhead out of their laziness, and to make them grumble monotonously at being disturbed. The big brown bees greedily devour the faces of the fragrant roses, the morning is dressed up in pale crimson, the scent of flowers weighs down the babyish wings of the air, and a couple of pinkish, purplish clouds stand like motionless pillars of Heaven.

It feels to the most unromantic like a hasty snatch of golden splendour gone astray from Eden, an hour in which Society forgets its paltry ambitions and heart-burnings, and feels as if there is yet some balm in Gilead, and a life beyond Tophet, in which human hearts will have peace and rest.

Zai has slipped out through the long French casement that opens on the lawn. Gabrielle has contrived to get Lord Delaval into the music-room, where she feeds him with passionate French love-songs, in a low, rich contralto. Trixy, leaning back, fair and indolent, and a trifle indifferent, listens to Archibald Hamiltons prosy discourse on the Land Bill. Baby has meandered down the flowery paths with young Hargreaves, the good-looking village Vet, on pretence of showing him an ill-conditioned Persian cat, but in reality to amuse herself with him faute de mieux.

So Zai, once out of sight, flies swiftly through the shrubberies, and only pauses when the far end of the grounds is reached.

It is just from this particular spot that a glimpse of Elm Lodge can be had.

She leans languidly against an old oak, with the grass, which is yet virgin from the Sun-gods kisses, making a dainty green carpet for her little feet.

Poor little Zai! A daughter of Belgravia is a traitor to her creed, for she is honestly, desperately in love.

If Carl Conway could see her at this moment, men are such slaves to beauty that he would be doubly enamoured of his little sweetheart. The background of dark green glossy foliage throws up almost too vividly her lovely white flesh tints and her slender statuesque figure. Her hands are folded loosely together, and a far-off expression lurks in her big, luminous grey eyes, half veiled by broad, drooping lids and long, curling lashes.

Zai is dreaming only dreaming.

Her dreams are:

but they are evidently pleasant, for a soft smile passes over her lips, and her face seems to overflow with sunshine, while all manner of entrancing dimples spring into life, and make a parfait amour of her as our neighbours across the Channel say.

Perhaps an acute physiognomist would find something wanting in the fair sweet, girlish face, a power, a firmness, character, in fact, but few of us are true physiognomists, even if acute ones, and very few eyes, especially masculine ones, would discover flaws in the entrancing beauty that has caught Carl Conways worldly heart.

There is a wistful look in Zais face however, which does not deteriorate from her attractions. It has come with the thought that just there over the clump of swaying pines, is the house where Crystal Meredyth lives, and where Carl is staying.

Zai!

Zai has been a fixture against the oak tree for an hour, and so absorbed in her thoughts that the far-off expression lingers in her glance as she turns slowly round.

Yes, Gabrielle.

Your mother wants you. Her ladyships keen instinct divined that in all probability you were mooning away your time out here.

Mooning, Gabrielle, what a word.

A very good word, and an expressive one. All Belgravia speaks slang now; it has become quite fashionable to imitate the coal-heavers and the horsey men, and I dont dislike it myself. It is far better than the refined monotonous twaddle of those horrible convenances.

Do you talk slang to Lord Delaval? Zai asks with a smile.

Pas si bête! I leave that till I have landed my fish!

I often wonder, Gabrielle, if you really care for that man, or if you are only trying to catch him.

Both, dear. The first feeling naturally induces the last inclination. But we cant stay chattering here; lunch is ready and the stepmother wants you.

What for? asks Zai, with unusual petulance.

She does not want to leave this charmed spot, with the big trees arching overhead, the swallows foolishly whirling round and round up in the sky, the sunlight falling on hollow and glade and dell, and just over there the house where her Carl dwells.

How should I know? Lady Beranger is not likely to confide her desires to such a heretic as myself; perhaps she does not think it quite the thing for the flower of her flock to stand like a marble effigy of love and patience for the under-gardener to gape at.

As if I care who stares at me! Zai mutters with unwonted recklessness.

Of course you dont, pas le moins du monde! Zaidie Beranger, a modern Galatea, that only her Pygmalion, Carl Conway, can rouse into feeling or life, must naturally be as impervious as the Sphinx to curiosity, Gabrielle says mockingly, with an expressive shrug of her shoulders that, together with a slight accent, denote that she has only a part claim to English nationality.

Dont chaff, Gabrielle, it is most unlady-like, Zai says, imitating Lady Berangers slow solemn voice, and both burst out laughing.

But really I only came out for a whiff of fresh air; the house oppresses me. But there never is a bit of freedom at home, my mother never leaves me alone.